The saucer braked, looped, and headed down again, almost hurling him out. But Flint was catching on. There were a dozen foot controls, each with a wide range of positions. One was for the orientation of the craft, another was for velocity, a third for elevation. Just as he was about to intercept the ground at half-mach, he slowed the vehicle and brought it to a wobbly hover. Then he lifted it and started it back toward the spot where ¢le should be.
He spotted her easily, running through the field toward the distant hills. Sensible girl! He came down as low as he dared—for he was a long way from achieving precise orientation—and bobbed along behind her. “Hey, ¢le of A[th]!” he called.
Startled, she glanced behind. “Øro!” she cried, amazed. “How did you resist capture?”
“Never mind,” he called. “Get up here! We’re going to the hills in style!”
The FreeSlaves were astounded. “You killed a Master?” they kept asking, refusing to quite believe it.
“Once again, lightly,” Flint repeated. “I am an envoy from Sphere Sol, neighbor to Sphere Canopus, transferred to this body. I killed the Master and took over the saucer so as to make contact with you. ¢le of A[th] helped me. If you organize, revolt, take over this planet, spread the revolution throughout this Sphere, throw out the Masters, you shall have the secret of transfer.”
“Yes!” ¢le breathed. “That’s what A[th] lacked. “Transfer!”
But the FreeSlaves only stood about uncertainly. They were a motley crew, ill clothed and ill fed. The Slaves of the plantation not only looked healthier, they seemed happier.
Flint saw it wouldn’t work. These were not human beings; centuries of ruthless selection had bred out the backbone of this species. They could no more revolt successfully than the domestic animals of Sphere Sol could. Some might run amuck when prodded too far, but that was a far cry from organized, disciplined revolution. No wonder they were called FreeSlaves; they were just that. Slaves without Masters.
¢le was as disappointed as he was. “I wish you’d come to A[th] a century ago,” she said to him.
The FreeSlave leader appeared. He had evidently held back, lost in the crowd, listening to Flint’s story before committing himself. The attitude of the FreeSlaves changed, becoming more disciplined. Perhaps there was hope after all!
“I am T%x of D)(d,” the leader said, omitting the Slave intonation. Yes, a man of power! “You tell an interesting story, and you bring an excellent piece of equipment. But it proves only that you are here—not that you are with us. I do not believe you could not have captured this vehicle by yourselves; the Masters gave it to you, and sent you here as spies to subvert our group.”
“That’s a lie!” Flint snapped. But he saw that the Free-Slaves didn’t believe him. T%x had provided a believable rationale, and it gave them confidence.
“We shall make you tell the truth before we kill you,” T%x said. He produced a punishment-box, no doubt stolen from the Masters.
“That won’t work,” ¢le said. “Øro was put under eleven-pain for three days and didn’t crack. And he is telling the truth; I believe him. No Slave could do the things he did!”
“No genuine Slave,” T%x replied. “But a spy dealing with cooperative Masters and faked pain—”
“Øffal!” she spat derisively, employing the baton sinister.
T%x grabbed her by the shoulder. “You’re a pretty one!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take you for my harem!”
She kicked him in the groin, which was fully humanoid. The blow was glancing, but it infuriated him. Flint took a step toward them, but was barred by the spears of a score of FreeSlaves.
“We’ll torture her first!” T%x cried. “What’s her number?”
Two men grabbed ¢le and read the number off her shoulder. T%x laboriously set the box. Then he turned the dial.
¢le stiffened. The box was operative, all right.
“Now,” T%x said grimly. “Talk, spy. Why are you working for the Masters?”
“I’m not working for the—” she cried, but was choked off by six-level pain.
“Stop it!” Flint said. “I can prove my origin. I can tell you all about—”
“We’ll get to you soon enough,” T%x said. “Now, girl spy, who are your other accomplices?”
“I have none! I’m a loyal A[th]—”
This time the pain was nine, held too long. ¢le writhed on the ground, her face grotesque in agony, her well-shaped legs spreading far apart, their muscles quivering. Someone chuckled evilly.
Flint grabbed a spear from the nearest FreeSlave and used it to knock the man down. This was a weapon he was expert with, in any body! He charged T%x. But the others piled on him in a mass and crushed him down, holding him helpless.
“One more time, spy,” T%x said to ¢le. It was evident that the sight of her agony had excited him. He was a sadist, sexually stimulated by the infliction of pain. Which meant there would be no mercy in him. “What is the Masters’ plan?”
¢le caught her breath and wiped the mud her spittle had formed from her face. “I don’t know anything about—” she said. And leaped for T%x.
But the pain caught her in midair. Twelve.
Red froth bubbled from her mouth as she fell. Flint had never seen such an expression of total agony. Her entire body jerked and shook, her wide-open eyes scraped through the dirt unblinking, and she soiled herself involuntarily. The watching FreeSlaves burst into laughter.
“Turn it off!” Flint bawled. “I’ll tell you anything you want!”
But T%x did not turn it off. He watched, fascinated, while the thing that had been ¢le shuddered and twisted.
Abruptly she stopped. Her features relaxed, as though she were sleeping, just as the broken-armed $mg of Y◊jr had relaxed. “T%x,” one of the FreeSlaves said nervously, “I think she’s—”
“Dead,” T%x said, turning off the box. “Serves the spy right.” He was breathing hard.
But ¢le wasn’t dead. Her body still breathed.
T%x turned the dial up again, experimentally, seeing whether he could get another kick out of the victim. There was no response. “Strange…” he muttered.
“Mindless!” the FreeSlave said, awed. “You killed her mind!”
T%x considered, startled. “All right,” he said. “That’s even better. Put her in my cave. I can still use her, and she won’t be any trouble now.” He turned to Flint. “Give me his number.”
Flint realized that this depraved creature would torture and kill for the pleasure of it; the information he sought was merely an excuse. The Master in the saucer had been a better creature, an enemy but no sadist, and not stupid.
Saucers appeared in the sky—eight or nine of them. The FreeSlaves started to run in terror. Pain-beams cut them down, herding them back to the center. Cattle!
Flint made a break for his saucer. He scrambled over the rim and jammed his feet into the well, striking the lift pedal.
Nothing happened.
“Your carrier has been deactivated,” a pleasant Master’s voice said from a speaker in the saucer. “Remain where you are.”
Flint hauled himself out and dived for the edge—and into an invisible pain-field. He crumpled. There was no way to resist that flesh-permeating agony; his muscles stiffened involuntarily and prevented controlled action.
The pain diminished. “Remain where you are,” the voice repeated gently.
Now Flint could fight it, for the level was only one or two. But the moment he moved, it shot up to eight or ten. He got the message. He was captive.
“I am B:::1,” the Master interrogator said. “According to your statement to the runaways, you are an agent of Sphere Sol, our galactic neighbor. Were you sent to foment rebellion among the Slave population?”